


your seemly voice that you so delicately bring forth / make my thoughts, in joy and bliss, abound

by amells (aeviternal)



Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Deadfire, F/M, Fluff, this is the shortest thing ive ever posted on here but idc anymore, u kno u would never believe 90 per cent of my docs are angst at this rate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22840834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeviternal/pseuds/amells
Summary: There are many things in this world that Aloth adores; books, poetry, the smell of honeysuckle on the wind. All of them, he finds, pale in comparison to Runa's warmth and comfort at the end of a tiring day.
Relationships: Aloth Corfiser/The Watcher
Kudos: 23





	your seemly voice that you so delicately bring forth / make my thoughts, in joy and bliss, abound

It’s been a long, hard day.

All days, he’s beginning to think, are long hard days. They have been for years, now, since before he’d ever set foot in Gilded Vale. Around Runa, though, they seem all the more frequent; they’re always running from one settlement to another, the sea wind caught in their hair and salt flicking across their skin, some message or quest or other spurring their steps onward even when fatigue draws them backward.

He’s learned rather more of how a ship works in the past few months than he’d ever learned in sixty years. A glutton for knowledge he may be, but even Aloth has his limits.

So it is that, the night of their departure from Neketaka, he finds himself stumbling into Runa’s quarters only half-awake, the moon bathing the deck in silver light to guide his way.

Her lantern is on, as it usually is at this time of night. She’s like as not poring over a map, or the latest message from Onekaza, or else troubling herself in some other way sure to keep her up half the night.

Runa does not sleep enough. Lately, it oft feels as though Aloth doesn’t, either.

But when he cracks the door open – hesitant, still, feeling half an interloper for the crime, because this intangible thing between them is still so very new – she isn’t at her desk. She isn’t on the floor, either, surrounded by papers.

She’s on the bed, in fact. Her knees are tucked up so he cannot see her face, and for a moment he fears she’s finally given in and fallen asleep, and that he’s _disturbed her,_ but then she hums in inquiry.

Aloth’s too tired to return it in words, and he sways towards her, stumbling into the bed and knocking his chin on her hip hard enough to bruise.

He grumbles. “That hurt.”

“ _You_ knocked into _me_ , you lummox.” There’s a smile in her voice, though, so she can’t really be angry.

He doesn’t dignify that with a response, instead huffing and rearranging himself to be more comfortable. She has a good bed, Runa; a featherdown mattress, plusher even than the beds she’d purchased for Brighthollow, and several thick blankets and furs for the cool nights of the Deadfire.

Once he’s settled, he blinks. From this angle, he can see the logic of her position; there’s a book spread out on her thighs, text too small for him to bother attempting to read it in this state, but bookmarked and clearly well-loved.

Despite himself, he feels a rush of warmth. Pride. He remembers the early days, years ago now, when she could not even read a map. When he’d met her in the library on cold nights at Caed Nua, helping her learn the alphabet and sound out words by candlelight.

How far she’s come.

“Read to me,” he requests of her in light of this fact, quiet, his crown pillowed on her stomach as he blinks blearily at the pages.

Runa’s fingers find his hair, nails scratching over his scalp as though he were a particularly well-trained dog. He tries his utmost not to sink into this touch overmuch, for fear of proving such an analogy right. “Must I?”

“Mm. You must. I demand it of you.”

She tuts; when he angles his head to look at her, that lovely mouth of hers has quirked upward on one side. “Demand? So merciless.”

“Yes, well.” She’s still playing with his hair, lower now, twining the strands nearer the front, usually fastened by his hair ties, over her knuckles. It’s quite distracting, actually. _Fye, thought yeh were too tirt fer any’a that nonsense, yeh little—_ “Ahem. I’m quite merciless, you know.”

Runa’s stomach flexes with a laugh he can’t hear. “That you are. How _do_ I put up with you?”

“I suppose I’m not without my charms. Am I?”

She snorts, tugs lightly on his hair, but doesn’t answer. Instead, she begins: “Nas never pyk walwed in galauntyne, as I in love am walwed and I wounde—”

“Wait.” It’s a great effort to lift his hand and tangle his fingers with hers, but it’s worth it when she stops her stroking to squeeze him. “Is that— Eld Aedyran?”

Runa pauses for one very long moment, before clearing her throat. Her fingertips twitch against his palm. “Maybe.”

He chuckles throatily, turning his head so he can nuzzle his cheek against her belly. “‘Nas never pyk’— I know that. It’s a poem.” He peers up at her through his eyelashes, making no attempts to hide his toothy grin. “You’re reading Eld Aedyran _poetry._ ”

Her cheeks have flushed a becoming pink, the kind he so rarely sees. It leeches across her pale skin, colouring even her nose, the tips of her exposed ears, but she meets his eyes as though it doesn’t. “Shut up. I’m _reading._ ”

“Aye, lass, an’ yeh’re readin’ the lad some class _poems._ ”

Runa’s nose wrinkles. He’s never told her this, but every time she does it, it’s perhaps the sweetest thing he’s ever seen. “You too, Iselmyr. Hush.”

She takes a moment to wait for any other interruption, then continues. “For whych ful ofte I of my ſelf devyne, that I am trew Tristam the ſecunde, my love may not refreyde nor affound, I brenne ay in an amorouſe pleſaunce, do what you lyſt I wyl your thral be founde, thogh ye to me ne do no daliance.”

Aloth hums, playing loosely with their knotted hands. “Your accent is atrocious.”

“ _Your_ accent is atrocious.” But she notches her fingertips in his knuckles anyway, pulling their joined fists up to her mouth so she might press a kiss to the back of his hand, like he were a maiden in a song and she some vaunted knight.

His cheeks flare. If he weren’t so damnably tired— well. No matter. He hums again instead of— _that_ , his eyes slipping closed without his permission. “Is not.” Then, around a yawn that cracks his whole jaw open: “You should do this more. Poems.”

He feels her smile spread across his skin, still cradled against her lips. “I should?”

“Mm. S’nice.”

Runa laughs; a low, hoarse sound that buzzes beneath his cheek. It’s a nice laugh. He hears it more, now, than he used to. He likes it.

“Go to sleep, Aloth.”

**Author's Note:**

> the poem is 'balade to rosemounde', by chaucer, for anyone curious


End file.
